Flying the Coop
Or, my Great American Hometown Departure
Sometimes, I like to think of my life like a neatly shuffled deck of cards. The sequence of my life, and my relationship to where I was born and raised, fall satisfyingly and lovingly through my thumbs like a well-worn deck. I went to high school a block away from home, the college in my hometown has an amazing program for what I dreamed of studying, and every job I've had the privilege of working has fit nimbly into the stack. Yet, in the past year something has been pulling at me. I think it is curiosity, the feeling that I have followed a familiar sequence for long enough, and that it might be time to shake it up in some manner.
You’ve probably guessed this by now, but I’ve never lived outside my hometown.
My coastal California town is shaped like a cup in a cradle of mountains. It's sunny 300 days of the year. It’s known for its population of 20,000 college students, towheaded and red-blooded ocean people, granola pounding hippies, and old, clannish farming families whose roots run through our communities like a mycorrhizal network. It’s a place that's knit as tight as a scarf, and we all wear it with pride. It is my home and I love it.
(I could probably attach about 5 million photos of how gorgeous SLO is but then you'd already be sick of me and we are barely a quarter of a way into this blog post so enjoy these six)
Now, bear with me. In the movies, a young buck's college departure usually goes something like this: they ruffle a sibling’s hair, kiss their mom goodbye, toss a few bags into an obnoxiously charming station wagon, and drive toward the future in a lettered college crewneck to the tune of a 2010s indie pop chart-topper. Either it's a cinematic emotional climax (hey Lady Bird) or the beginning to some slapstick comedy about the debauchery of freshman year.
Anyways, if that is the formula for the great American collegiate flight from the nest, I might've missed the mark. My college move involved my mother dropping me off down the street with a few bins, followed by me biking home the next morning for the toothpaste I forgot.
All this to say, one thing has been missing from my great American adolescence: the Hometown Departure.
Enter Denmark.
Though my Swedish ancestors may be rolling in their graves at their internationally traitorous great-great-granddaughter, Denmark is where I want to be. The people, the architecture, the culture, the BIKES. The FOOD. As an architecture student, and a student of design at large, it’s a veritable mecca. As a cyclist, it’s the garden of Eden. The warmth and humanity of danish design and culture is something I know I’ll carry with me throughout my design career.
And, in the background of all this, DIS. This school is the safety net. It’s the perfect program for me, and I am incredibly grateful to be a part of it.
As I prepare for this journey abroad. I am writing because I want to discover how I respond when I cannot rely on familiarity, or run home for forgotten toothpaste. I want to bike through the city of my dreams, talk to strangers, Say Yes, and learn how to flawlessly pronounce rødgrød med fløde.
With my Hometown Departure imminent, I am writing from my bed, staring at two paper grocery bags (buying a suitcase is clocking in at #1 on my to-do list) filled with things I thus far have deemed appropriate for my Scandinavian ambitions:
Four pairs of wool socks (saved for a moment like this)
Photobooth strips with my best friends, my mother, and my boyfriend (finger guns, twin smiles, loving embraces
packable mems My cat (she likes paper bags)
someone tell her to get out of my suitcase A copy of Travels with Charley: In Search of America (homesickness cure)
A big coat (corduroy, $22, Goodwill)
So, I am practically ready!
Materially, at least. (just kidding). Emotionally, I am somewhere between the most excited I’ve ever been and biting my nails to the quick. I worry about homesickness, unfamiliarity, what in the WORLD I'm going to wear on the first day of school, and discovering that I am less independent than I imagine, but I’m certain I’ll surprise myself. I will miss the shape of my hills, my family and friends, and seeing everyone I know when I leave the house. But man if that's not the point! A hometown departure should cost something. Otherwise, it is only a change of address.
For once, I do not know where the next card will fall, and I am trying to welcome that uncertainty rather than flip it neatly back into the deck. There may be no station wagon or indie pop, but I am sure the Hometown Departure will be worth reflecting on. Hopefully you will hear from me again when my wheels touch Danish soil!
Until then: COPENHAGEN OR BUST!
Comments